


The Twentieth Of May

by QuickWit



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Character Death, Gen, Non-Graphic Violence, Sensitive themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-27
Updated: 2012-07-27
Packaged: 2017-11-10 20:12:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/470198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuickWit/pseuds/QuickWit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’d always known the war would change them. He’d expected that, had prepared himself for it. But never in the worst of his nightmares did it cross his mind that, in one way or another, the events of a single day would destroy them all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ron

It was the sunlight streaming through the windows and shining on his face that brought Ron Weasley from a night of rough sleep. He opened his eyes and blinked at the white ceiling for a few moments, trying to clear his head. There was a shuffling sound to his right, but he didn’t bother turning his stiff neck towards it, knowing it was just Dobby.   
  
It was the same every morning at around seven. The house elf would pop into his bedroom and open the curtains, effectively waking Ron and then while Ron tried to get his body to cooperate with him, Dobby would putter around tidying up before helping the wizard get ready for the day.  
  
Slowly, and with great difficulty, Ron began to raise a hand to his eyes, clenching his teeth as he tried to ignore the deep-boned ache that the movement brought about. The pain came from far too many hard knocks and Crucio’s throughout his life and was the worst in the morning just after he’d woken up. He’d have to start slow as his body struggled against him, warming the muscles with unhurried, careful movements until they were use to being used again. The days and evenings would never hurt as much, but sometimes, if he’d been in one position too long, the ache would take its toll.  
  
When feeling returned to his fingers, he began to rub at his bleary eyes and started to get the blood flowing in his legs again by bending his knees, once more ignoring the assault of pain. A small, cold hand touched his arm and he dropped it back to his side, sighing in relief as warmth spread throughout him, washing away the pain.   
  
He looked over at Dobby and narrowed his eyes, even though he was thankful that the elf had made the aching diminish. “I have asked you not to do that, Dobby,” he grumbled, his voice hoarse from sleep. “I won’t take the potions and I refuse to become reliant on you to numb the pain either.”  
  
“This is not a morning that you should be arguing with Dobby, Mister Wheezies, Sir,” the house elf responded.  
  
Just as Ron was about to shoot back with a remark about Dobby becoming too defiant than was good for someone who was paid to serve, the elf’s words sunk in and he bit back the comment. It was a hell of a day to be muttering about how far house elf rights should extend.   
  
May the twentieth; he’d been dreading this day the entire month and now that it had arrived, pain once more slammed into his stomach, much worse than any sort of physical suffering. No, this was more of the gut-wrenching, make-you-nauseous, crushing-of-the-chest pain that could only come from a loss so deep that it scarred one to their very soul.  
  
Pushing it away, as he did every year on this day, Ron sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. “No, you’re right. I’m sorry, Dobby. Thank you.”   
  
The house elf only looked up at him with those large swimming green eyes of his, conveying that he too felt the loss, and then summoned Ron’s robe to his hand with a snap of his fingers before holding it out.   
  
As Ron rose on shaky legs and took the robe, slipping it over his shoulders, he asked, “Is Harry up yet?”  
  
“No, Mister Wheezies, Harry Potter is still sleeping,” Dobby responded and then walked in front of Ron towards the bathroom that was connected to the room.   
  
Ron caught a brief glance of a photograph on his dresser, one taken in a much happier time, of three young people wearing Hogwarts robes and large smiles, as he followed Dobby, and once more he had to force the pain away. He didn’t know why he kept that picture beside his bed, seeing it only made his eyes sting, yet he had never put it in a dark drawer, as he’d often thought about doing. To do so would be a betrayal to the memory of such things, he believed.  
  
He dared not look at himself in the mirror as he entered the bathroom and listened to the sounds of Dobby filling the tub, knowing what he would see; a pale, drawn face, sunken eyes with bags underneath them, along with a thick scar that ran down his cheek and was always more prominent of a morning. He’d certainly seen better days.  
  
He shed his robe and boxers, then slipped into the tub, sighing when the warm water immediately began to work its magic on his body and then shook his head in the negative when Dobby asked if Harry should be woken. “No, Dobby, let him sleep a bit longer. I’ll wake him myself when I’m done here.”  
  
Nodding, the elf disappeared with a soft pop, leaving Ron alone in his bath. The wizard sighed and tried to relax, knowing the effort was futile. Six years. It was six years to the day when the world had fallen apart and been reborn. Six years since Voldemort’s defeat, and six years since Ron’s heart had been crushed. His eyes drifted shut almost of their own will.  
  
 _”Oh, honestly! If you’d put as much effort into your schoolwork as you do into getting me flustered, you probably would have gotten better grades than I did!”_  
  
“No,” he muttered to himself, his eyes snapping open as he sat bolt upright in the tub, not even noticing the water that splashed over the edges. Over and over he told himself to stop thinking about it, but the words were still echoing in his mind. They weren’t what bothered him though, what made his chest tighten was the voice that had said them what felt like a lifetime ago.  
  
 _“You can be so daft, Ronald, sometimes I wonder why on Earth I put up with you.”_  
  
He didn’t want to think about it, simply couldn’t, the pain was unbearable but it was too hard to fight it off. So much time had passed and still the wound was open and raw. This day, the anniversary, was worse than most, but every other day seemed like it was open to attack as well.   
  
They would hit him hard and fast, without warning, bringing with them a burn of utter  _wrongness_  that settled in his stomach and made him feel ill. Long ago he’d resigned himself to the fact that it was simply something he’d never get over, but that didn’t mean he had to dwell on it.  
  
 _”You and Harry are my world, Ron. If I push myself too hard, it’s only because I love you both so much and it’s my way of making sure I still have you both when this mess is over and done with."_  
  
Quickly, needing something to do, some way to busy himself so that he could at least attempt to clear his mind, Ron climbed from the tub and emptied it before drying himself with a towel, perhaps rubbing his skin a bit more roughly than was necessary. He barely noticed.   
  
Going back into his bedroom, he slipped on the clothes that Dobby had laid out on his bed and then headed from the room. In the hallway, he briefly paused at another door, listening for any sounds of distress and when he heard nothing, he continued onwards to the stairs and made his way for the lower level of the house.  
  
The Potter house in Godric’s Hollow had been in shambles when he’d first visited it, years ago, during a time when so much was both right and wrong with the world. It had looked close to falling apart completely; the front gate rusted, the door blown in, weeds overgrowing it, and the top floor completely burnt out.   
  
After Voldemort’s downfall, Ron had known Harry would want to live there and had put his best friend’s inheritance to good use and fixed it up. Now it was a home that was bright and comfortable, but for some reason, it still felt cold to Ron. However, he reasoned, it wouldn’t matter where he was living; it would feel empty, as everything did these days.  
  
Ron was going to make his way to the kitchen, but when he reached the bottom stair, he spotted Dobby, standing near the back door and peering out worriedly. He made his way to the house elf and quietly questioned, “Dobby?”  
  
The tiny creature jumped, snapping his attention to Ron, his eyes still wide and sad. “Harry Potter woke while you were bathing, Mister Wheezies. He is out on the porch and did not come inside when Dobby asked him to.”  
  
Nodding, Ron squeezed his shoulder and told him, “You get started on breakfast, Dobby, I’ll see to Harry.”   
  
Without waiting for a response from the elf, Ron headed out the back door and onto the porch. Just like Dobby said, Harry was there, standing near the railing and looking out over the grounds that were behind the house.   
  
The backyard of Godric’s Hollow was a decent size, marked off with a waist height stone fence. Past that, they were pretty much surrounded by trees, but there was a path through the back gate that cut into the thin forest, one that Ron was very familiar with. It was in that direction that Harry was blankly staring.  
  
Standing silent for a few minutes, Ron examined his friend. He had once seen Harry Potter as unbreakable, a pillar of strength during even the darkest of days. He had once seen him as a vibrant friend, full of life, whether it was warm laughter or righteous anger.   
  
Now though, as he looked at the young man who was frowning into the distance, wearing nothing but the boxers and singlet he’d gone to bed in, Ron could only see a shell of the man he had once known, a person who was almost completely unrecognizable.  
  
He walked towards the raven haired young man slowly, like one might approach a frightened animal. Reaching out a hand and being careful not to startle him, Ron gently pushed his fingers into Harry’s messy hair and rubbed tenderly, knowing that soft pressure on his friends scalp helped to keep him calm.   
  
Then he asked in a voice barely above a whisper, “Harry, mate? What are you doing out here?”  
  
Harry’s dull green eyes turned towards him, his face remaining completely free of any sign of emotion. For a moment, he just looked into Ron’s eyes with that blank stare of his, the one that never failed to unnerve Ron and shake him with a pang of loss, before he quietly responded, “The Miniature Japanese Spike-Tailed Dragon is capable of being domesticated.”  
  
Ron didn’t expect any more than that. Harry rarely spoke these days and when he did he said nothing more than some obscure, random fact. Ron had a feeling he knew why, but as he couldn’t exactly ask Harry, it was a theory that could never be confirmed.  
  
Without being thrown by the comment at all, Ron simply gave his friend a small smile and replied, “Perhaps we should look into getting one.”  
  
Once upon a time, his retort would have gotten a full bellied laugh in response, but now Harry only looked at him for a moment, nodding thoughtfully, before turning his eyes back to stare in the direction of the path that led away from the gate and through the trees.   
  
Ron contained a sigh and brushed a lock of black hair behind Harry’s ear. Before, back when things were normal, Ron wouldn’t have even thought of touching his friend in such a way, in fact he would have hesitated before even touching girls in that way. But now, when Harry, who was the person he cared for most in the world, was so different, so child-like even, Ron couldn’t help but act softly with him. He thought words were inadequate, so he expressed how much he cared for his best mate with tenderness, knowing that on some level that would be what Harry understood the best.  
  
The smell of bacon wafting from the kitchen made Ron’s stomach grumble, so he gripped Harry’s arm and slowly started to lead him back into the house. “Let’s go and have breakfast, mate. We’ll go for a visit after lunch, after we stop into the village and get some flowers,” Ron told him quietly, gesturing his head in the direction of the back gate. “Sound alright to you?”  
  
As always, there was no response, but Ron didn’t need one because Harry was following him inside without a struggle. The ache in Ron’s chest flared again and for the briefest of moment’s, he allowed himself to wallow in it.

  



	2. Harry

Ron gripped his friends arm as they walked the dirt path to the village, ensuring that Harry would continue to move with him. The trip was slow, as his raven-haired companion often liked to stop and stare at their surroundings, but neither of them had anything better to do, so Ron wasn’t about to rush him.   
  
Besides, the fresh air would do them both some good as being in that house, surrounded by memories, whether they be from the time they’d stayed there during the war or the photographs that hung on the walls, was starting to suffocate him, though he couldn’t be quite sure what effect, if any, it had on Harry.  
  
He’d been caring for his friend for such a long time now that years of his own life had flown by before he could even notice. It didn’t bother him in the least though, even when others had urged him to place Harry in the long term ward at St. Mungo’s. Ron’s own mother even, who loved Harry like a son, had been one of the many who thought he would be best off there.  
  
 _“Think about what’s best for the both of you, Ron. Harry would have the care he’d need and you would be able to live your life. You’re wasting away! You’re still so young, you’ve still got such a bright future. Find yourself a nice girl and settle down; raise a family; find a job that you enjoy. Get out and have a life! You need to let go, Ron!"_  
  
She’d said it as if he hadn’t thought of it before. Of course he had, lots of times, but he knew that it wasn’t possible any longer, that it hadn’t been possible since the day the war had ended. He’d never enjoy anything anymore, so he settled for making the best of what he had, even if it wasn’t much.   
  
He stayed at Godric’s Hollow and took care of his best friend, living off the money in Harry’s vault, the money that was technically his since Harry really wasn’t of sound mind anymore. He would have felt bad, living off his friend’s inheritance, if he wasn’t doing so just to take care of said friend. Looking after Harry was a full-time job, even with Dobby around to help, and one that he’d rather supervise himself.  
  
And all argument to letting someone else do it was moot in Ron’s eyes; Harry had never once abandoned him, so Ron felt it only right that he stick by his friends side, even if things were tough. If he had to look after Harry for the rest of his life, so be it. He would never turn his back on him, as so many others already had, a thought which made Ron bitter. Harry had saved the entire wizarding world, the entire world even, if one looked at Voldemort’s long term plans, and how had he been repaid? By a public who didn’t care if he was left to rot in the sterile care of St. Mungo’s long-term ward.  
  
Ron could remember ever so clearly when, after just three months of trying to restore whatever it was that had been lost of Harry’s mind, the Healers had given up, telling Ron that there was simply nothing they could do to help him, that he would be in his current state forever.  
  
 _”We’re sorry, Mr Weasley, but we’ve tried everything. We don’t even really know what’s wrong with him, let alone how to fix it. We believe that he just … snapped. There are some forms at the front desk for you to fill out, and if you’ll just sign this one here we’ll transfer Mr Potter to the long-term ward.”_  
  
He’d taken the form from the Healer’s hand and ripped it in two, not even bothering to look at it. Then, glaring at the group of so called experts, he’d asked if Harry was physically fit enough to leave the hospital. When they’d hesitantly told him he was, he’d taken his quiet friend by the arm and led him away.  
  
Ever since then, he’d looked after Harry himself, gratefully accepting only the help of Dobby, who had shown up the day after Ron and Harry had left St. Mungo’s and demanded to work for them, free of charge if necessary. Of course, Ron insisted on paying him, not only because he could hear the nagging voice in his head, the one that currently made his stomach clench, telling him it was the right thing to do, but also because Dobby was a friend, and Harry would have wanted him to be paid for his services.  
  
Sometimes Ron thought that if it wasn’t for that little elf he himself might just snap and go off the deep end. Living such an empty life wasn’t easy and Ron felt the pressure of it every single day. If he wasn’t able to take a few hours to himself every now and then, while Dobby looked after Harry, he didn’t think he’d be able to handle it.  
  
In fact there were times when he’d been so depressed that he’d thought about ending it all, simply turning his wand on himself. But such thoughts were quickly dismissed. There were people in the next great adventure that would have a right field day if he were to ever take the coward’s way out. As he walked with Harry by his side towards the village, he chuckled to himself as he thought about what one in particular might say about it.  
  
 _“What in Merlin’s name were you thinking, Ron? Are you a Gryffindor or not? Simply giving up like that isn’t our way! And what about poor Harry? What’s to become of him now? Honestly, if I wasn’t opposed to violence I’d hex you so badly that you wouldn’t know which way was up!”_  
  
And there was another reason he wasn’t up to doing himself in; Harry needed him and he’d long ago made the decision that he wouldn’t leave his friend alone. Still, there were days when the weight in his chest crushed him so badly that the thoughts did still come to his mind. He often wondered what he had left to live for.  
  
Harry stopping to closely watch a pair of squirrels interact pulled Ron from his thoughts and once more reminded him what he kept going for. His best friend needed him. Watching Harry observe as the little creatures played, Ron continued on the train of thought, briefly wondering if Harry would even notice if his caretaker were to suddenly leave.   
  
That was what Ron thought about most of all, how much Harry actually understood what was happening around him. No one really knew the details of his condition, only that he had seemingly lost his mind, that he was clinically insane. His face was blank most of the time, his eyes dull, but there were some times when Ron could  _swear_  he was just in deep thought.   
  
He certainly didn’t think his friend was crazy like the Healers did; it seemed instead that he had reverted into a small child, one who rarely spoke and only showed strong emotions when he cried. There had been many nights Ron had woken him from a terrible nightmare and held him as he sobbed, letting the Weasley man know that at least he still felt  _something_. To Ron, he was no longer the Harry he had once known, but he was still there, just on a different level.  
  
That still didn’t answer the question of how much Harry understood, though. Would his best friend feel his loss if he were to take his own life? When Harry looked at Ron, then back to the squirrels, then to Ron again, his eyes asking silent permission, Ron knew he would and felt the determination to care for his friend once again flood through his veins. Nodding, Ron kept a careful eye on him as Harry slowly took a few more steps towards the squirrels.  
  
When he got too close, the animals looked up at him and then quickly ran away. Ron watched as Harry’s brow furrowed and felt a surge of affection as a small smile twitched at his lips at the sight of Harry looking just like a little boy who didn’t know why the squirrels didn’t want to play with him.  
  
Walking to his friend, Ron took hold of his arm again and started steering him back on track, saying quietly, “Come on, mate, let’s get to the village and see about some lunch.”  
  
Harry dutifully followed, looking back only once to the place where the squirrels had run, before returning his eyes to his feet. It was only a few minutes later that they entered the sleepy village of Godric’s Hollow, receiving only friendly smiles from the locals they passed on the streets.   
  
When they’d first moved into the Potter house, people had been wary of them. It wasn’t often that strangers came through, and it was even more unusual when they stayed to live, but two young men alone in a house was something that the townsfolk of Godric’s Hollow, even considering it was the new millennium, didn’t quite understand. But as they’d come to see Ron more often, as they’d gotten to know him better and learned more about Harry’s condition, they’d all warmed considerably.  
  
Ron took Harry to the pub and ordered them a couple of specials. He ate slowly, helping Harry when necessary, but really not rushing at all, if only because once they’d finished their meals, they’d buy what they’d come to get, then go home to an afternoon that Ron knew would only bring heartache.  
  
Still, he couldn’t put it off forever, this depressing tradition, so he paid for the meals and led Harry across the street to the small florist. It was the same every year; Harry would be drawn towards the lilies, while Ron preferred white roses. The florist would smile at them gently, understanding that the two of them coming into the shop on only the same few days every year with solemn faces meant something.  
  
The smell of the flowers washed over Ron as he took the nicest bouquet he could find and then milled around for a few minutes, allowing Harry a while longer to look at all the different coloured flowers, watching him closely out of the corner of his eye. Where would they be now, he wondered, if things had been different on this day six years ago? Where would they be now if things had turned out for the better?  
  
It wasn’t the first time he’d thought of it, wished for it. He’d often found himself slipping into fantasies of some alternate universe where the events of that day had been for the best, rather than some twisted mixture of both the good and the downright horrific. He was happy in that universe. He was married to the only woman who would ever have his heart and his best friend would still smile and chat with him about Quidditch and the such. But that was just wishful thinking, a lonely fool’s fantasy.  
  
Angry at himself for dwelling on those thoughts, those silly dreams, he forcefully reminded himself of the harsh reality, then moved over to Harry and began to usher him on their way. Paying for one bouquet of roses and three of lilies, the two left the store and began the slow walk home.   
  
The sky was blue and clear, the grass and trees were a lively green, birds were chirping somewhere in the distance. All in all, it was what most would believe a beautiful day. Ron felt as if it were mocking him, as if the heavens were having a good laugh at his expense by making this particular day in May so bright. He thought that thick grey clouds should be darkening the sky, that lightening should be cracking out loud claps of thunder, if only so then it would echo his mood, his dread as to what was to come on the rest of this horrible day.


	3. Hermione

When they got back to the house, Ron hesitated, hurriedly searching his mind for something, anything, that would put off what they had to do now. But Harry was already walking towards the back door, his arms loaded with the flowers he’d chosen, and Ron knew he had no choice but to follow, even as the ache in his chest grew more and more painful.   
  
Clutching the stem of his bouquet tightly, he trudged straight through the house after his best friend, pausing only briefly at the door to the kitchen to tell Dobby, “We’ll be back in a while.” The elf only nodded in response and sniffled quietly to himself.   
  
Ron found Harry waiting on the back porch for him, in almost the same position as he’d found him that morning, staring off in the direction that they were about to go. Gripping his shoulder, he waited for Harry to look at him before asking his friend if he was ready. He didn’t expect an answer, and the only one he received was Harry starting to move.   
  
The pair exited the back gate and started on the path that led deeper into the surrounding forest. Where they’d walked slowly and taken their time on the trip to and from the village of Godric’s Hollow, on this narrow dirt road both of them were moving swiftly. It certainly wasn’t because they were in a hurry to get there, so Ron figured it must be more an urge they shared, that told them to just get it over and done with.  
  
It was only a two minute walk and as they neared their destination Ron briefly wished that they’d gone slow. He wasn’t ready for this and his steps faltered. After a few deep breaths, he continued on after Harry, reminding himself that he was never ready for this, that no matter how much time he took to steel himself, this still managed to take the wind out of him. And it did; as they entered a small clearing and spotted what they’d come for, Ron found it difficult to breathe.  
  
There in the middle of the clearing was a small burial plot surrounded by a spiked, black fence. Three headstones were inside, seeming to glitter under the bright sunlight that shone its way through the trees. Harry walked through the gate first, Ron only a few steps behind, willing away the tears that had suddenly sprang to his eyes. Blinking a few times, he managed to get himself under control and watched his friend, trying to focus on anything but what they’d come to do.  
  
Harry stopped at the first two only briefly, laying a bouquet of flowers at each and staring at the headstones for a few, long moments before moving on. Ron knew that the reason he didn’t stay longer at the graves of his parents was because on this day, they were not here for James and Lily. The raven haired young man walked to the last headstone and looked down upon it for a minute or so, before moving to sit cross-legged in front of it, laying his flowers at its base.  
  
Ron slowly made his way over to the small bench against the fence and sat down heavily. He rubbed his weary face with a hand for a moment before leaning back and continuing to watch Harry. His friend didn’t say a word, just sat there in front of the headstone, his hand stretched out so that his fingers could slowly trace the words, letter by letter, in a touch so tender that it might have been used on the girl they were mourning herself.  
  
Without even consciously deciding to, Ron read the words that he already knew by heart, words that he wished he’d never seen, words that were burned into the flesh of his heart. He’d chosen them himself, probably the hardest thing he had ever done in his life, and he wondered what she would say about the simple memorial.  
  
 _Hermione Jane Granger  
1979-1998  
We’ll always miss you,  
We’ll always love you._

 __  
When they’d lost Hermione, they’d lost the last of the warmth that was left in their lives. Back before the war, he’d always thought that if the trio was a person, either he or Harry would be the heart, where Hermione would be the mind. It had seemed that way, right up until she’d died. That was when he realized that she had been the tie that kept them from shattering and when she had left them, they’d fallen to pieces. They’d needed Hermione, badly, and not just because she kept them on the right path. They’d needed her because she was their very heart.  
  
Sometimes it seemed like another lifetime ago that he’d found out she was dead, gone forever. Other times it felt like it was just yesterday, the pain was so raw. He’d loved her, there had never been a question about that, she had been his best friend, but it was only after she was gone that he realized that the feelings he had for her besides that weren’t just a crush, that he’d been  _in_  love with her.  
  
Often Ron wondered why Harry had been the one to break after her death, and not him, but he knew the answer to that. Harry had seen her die himself, had been told by those who did it that she was dead because of him and it had destroyed him. Ron knew he would have lost his mind too had he been in Harry’s position. Even so, often he asked himself why he had been the one left in control, why he had been the survivor.  
  
 _”I’m so sorry, Ron … we got there … it was too late. Harry’s alive, he’s been taken to St. Mungo’s, he’s in very bad shape … they’re not sure he’ll make it through the night.”  
  
“Hermione?”  
  
“She … I’m so sorry, but she didn’t make it, Ron. She was … gone, before we even got there.”_  
  
His father had been the one to tell him and Ron wished that it had been someone else, someone he didn’t know. He could barely look at his dad now without hearing those words echo through his mind. He could never remember being in as much pain as he was after he’d been told. His entire world had fallen down around him, his life shattering with a sentence, his heart breaking with a word;  _gone_.   
  
As he sat on the bench, staring, unseeingly, at the gravestone in front of Harry, Ron could feel his chest constricting with the emotions once more. His throat felt dry, his eyes burned, his stomach rolled, and breathing was getting harder and harder. This happened every year, his soul shattering as he remembered that day. It was a vicious cycle; his heart would break, he’d take a year to put it back together the best he’d could, only to reach this day again.  
  
They’d been captured, Harry and Hermione, while Ron had gotten away. Many times over the years he wished he’d been caught too, that he’d died right beside her, but that was not how things had played out. The two of them had been held by the Death Eaters for no more than an hour before Voldemort had decided to break Harry before murdering him and fulfilling the prophecy. That decision was recorded in the history books on the twentieth of May as being the day Voldemort made his last mistake.  
  
As Ron wasn’t there, he wasn’t exactly certain of what had happened, but after Harry had been rescued, near death himself, the Aurors had taken the memory from him and Ron had been offered the chance to see. Knowing that he would more than likely witness Hermione’s murder, Ron refused, but did ask that they give him a brief overview, so that he’d at least have some understanding of what Harry had gone through.  
  
The Death Eaters hadn’t just killed her in front of him; they’d beaten her, tortured her, violated her … everything horrible they could think of, they did, before finally putting her out of her misery. The Aurors told Ron that even though Harry had been a wreck while watching these things happen, Hermione had stayed strong. They had brought her to tears, they had made her scream and beg, but even at the end of it, they had not broken her. Even moments before she was killed, brutally, she had been telling Harry that it wasn’t his fault; she believed in him; she loved him; she loved Ron.  
  
The pride Ron had felt at hearing that, at knowing that she’d gone on to the next life just as strong as she’d been in this one, had been drowned out by the pain in his chest and the heaving sobs that rubbed his throat raw. Hermione had been the most beautiful person he’d ever known, she didn’t deserve to suffer like that.  
  
Her death had been the trigger for Harry, it had been the moment he had snapped, but apparently, his mind had gone out in a blaze of glory. The Aurors said that he sent out three surges of magic, each so strong that they’d registered highly on the muggles Richter Scale. The first had smashed the magical bonds that had been holding him in place, the second had killed all the Death Eaters in the room, while the last, and strongest, had reduced the self-proclaimed Lord Voldemort to nothing more than a pile of ashes.  
  
Then he’d crawled to Hermione’s body and held her as he cried until he passed out. He’d never recovered, but on a different level, neither had Ron.   
  
In a way, Hermione’s death had killed all three of them. Ron had expected that they would be changed from the war, he had been prepared for that, but he’d never thought that it would reduce him and Harry to mere shells of the men they’d once been.  
  
Ron had allowed himself to imagine the scene only once and even all these years later he could still hear her screaming in his nightmares, he could still hear Harry’s broken sobs. He hadn’t even been there and the dreams about it were still enough to have him retching over the side of his bed when he woke up in a cold sweat.  
  
He was snapped from his thoughts when he realized that Harry was standing directly in front of him, looking at him with that blank expression of his. Ron hurriedly wiped away his tears, but was able to crack a small smile when Harry said, “Rowena Ravenclaw enchanted the staircases at Hogwarts herself.”  
  
Ron’s theory about Harry’s random facts brought him back to Hermione and the impact her brutal death had had on their friend. If he thought really hard, he was sure that he’d heard her sprout off many of the things that Harry said at one point or another. Thus, he believed that Harry only said things that he’d heard Hermione once say and that sign of just how deeply her murder had hit Harry was more than enough to stifle any anger Ron may have at his friend.  
  
And there had been anger. He hated himself for it, for getting angry with Harry over Hermione’s death, but there had been times when he’d felt his blood boil because of it. Why hadn’t his friend been able to save her? Why didn’t he release those bursts of magic before they had killed her? Why did she have to be on that stupid mission to destroy Voldemort to start with?  
  
The guilt he felt after those thoughts crossed his mind could have rivalled some of Harry’s finest moments of self-pity. Ron knew that none of it was Harry’s fault, not really. It had all been Voldemort’s. And Hermione had been far too stubborn a woman to turn back from something she felt she had to do. Knowing that didn’t make it any easier to live without her though.  
  
When Ron blinked back to the real world again, Harry had moved and was now sitting in between his parents graves. Ron knew that meant it was his turn, but he gave himself a long moment before rising to his feet. His legs were beginning to ache, but he was able to make them function long enough to get him the few steps it took before he was in front of Hermione’s grave. Then he let them give out and dropped to his knees.  
  
He placed the bouquet of roses next to Harry’s lilies and then sat silent for a while, warm tears spilling down his face as the familiar crush in his chest got stronger. When he spoke, his voice was ragged and hoarse. “Hey, love,” he muttered, trying to find something to say. “Harry’s doing well … he’s eating by himself now and hasn’t had a nightmare in a while … I suppose I’m doing alright too.”  
  
As soon as he said the words, he felt bad for lying to her, the one person he knew he could have told absolutely anything to. He continued with an apology, “Alright, that’s a lie, I’m sorry. I’m not doing alright, and I don’t think Harry is either, but … well, we’re surviving, which is pretty much all we can do without you.” He glanced over at Harry before taking a deep breath and saying, “I miss you, Hermione. More than anything.”  
  
His throat choked up and his chest started to heave so hard that for a brief moment, through the cloud of grief in his mind, he worried he would get sick on her grave. It was that thought that forced him to control himself, to take deep breaths and wipe away the tears that were streaming down his pale face.   
  
Not being able to speak anymore, he simply knelt in front of her grave for quite a while. When he was finally able to pull back into himself, all he wanted to do was get as far away from there as possible. He looked around and saw Harry sitting on the bench, ready to go whenever he was, and he was well past that point.  
  
Turning back to the marble stone, he kissed his fingers and then ran them across her name, whispering his goodbye, telling her he’d see her next time they visited. He tried to get up and failed miserably, his legs aching beyond belief. Suddenly, Harry’s hand was on his arm and the raven haired man was helping him to stand. With one last look at Hermione’s final resting place, they hobbled from the burial plot together and started to make their way back down the path.  
  
The sky was beginning to darken as the day headed towards its end and while one part of his mind focused on how worried Dobby would be when they got back, all the larger part could think about was how happy he was that this dreadful day was almost over once again. There was a whole year left until he had to suffer through it again.  
  
Her voice drifted over the wind to him again,  _”Oh, for crying out loud, Ron, it’s just a day!”_  and the smallest of smiles appeared on his lips, battling against the ache in his chest as he tightened his grip on Harry.  
  
  
 **End.**

**  
**


End file.
